"I abandoned all—parents, friends, fortune, even a name without stain, and honoured up to that time—to go into another hemisphere, to conceal my proscribed head."
"While you, young and careless, arrived by one side in America, I arrived by another side—old, with all my illusions dispelled, cursing the blow which struck me."
"Believe me, whatever may be their name, dynasties are all ungrateful, because they feel themselves powerless. The people alone is just, because it knows that it is strong."
"I pity you in a double sense," answered the young man, holding out his hand: "first, because your proscription is iniquitous, then because you arrive in a country in full revolution."
"I know it," answered he, smiling; "it is on this revolution that I reckon: perhaps it will save me."
"I hope so, for your sake, although your words are so obscure to me that I cannot understand them. It is true that up to the present time I have never thought of politics."
"Who knows if they will not soon absorb all your thoughts?"
"God forbid, Monsieur," cried he with a sort of indignation; "I am a painter."
"Here are my people," said M. Dubois.
"Where?"